


Mascot

by HypatiaTheGunslinger



Series: Sterek Oneshot Crossovers [2]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Stiles/Derek - Freeform, Stiles/Spike somewhat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-19
Updated: 2016-10-19
Packaged: 2018-08-23 09:04:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8322040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HypatiaTheGunslinger/pseuds/HypatiaTheGunslinger
Summary: Post "Ways We Find Ourselves" Teen Wolf/BtVS CrossoverDerek has been MIA for months and Stiles is ready to crawl out of his skin. Which leads to late night driving, which leads to running from strange werewolves, which leads to kissing blond vampires, which leads to Derek tied to a bed. Non-explicit Sterek, Stiles/Spike friendship For Tina





	

 

One would think, if one knew the mess his life had become, that Stiles Stilinski would have gotten used to running away from werewolves. And of course one would be wrong.

 

It was 6 a.m. on a Friday. Stiles had given up on getting to sleep, as he often did when his brain was racing. Thoughts of Scott and all the problems they were both having in school. Thoughts of Lydia Martin and her long red curls. Thoughts of Derek and his...everything. Every thought moved through his brain like a marathon runner. Stiles had to get out.

 

Sheriff Stilinski was passed out on the couch, as usual, in front of late night infomercials and a coffee table full of police files. Stiles barely had to tiptoe by him to get out the front door. He hopped in his beater of a jeep and just drove. Not really knowing where he was going, Stiles just kept driving. Until an animal dashed out of the woods to his left, and ran straight into him. It put a huge dent in his driver’s side door, and Stiles skidded to a stop.

 

“Shit!”

 

It was a dead quiet winter night and the only thing Stiles could hear for a moment was the thundering of his own heartbeat, and the litany of curses he was spewing under his own breath. Then, the creature leaped onto the hood of the jeep. It was covered in dark brown fur, had glowing yellow eyes, and it was looking right at Stiles, snarling.

 

“Oh god!” Stiles murmured. “Okay, nice werewolf! You don’t want to hurt me. I know an Alpha and some other wolves who would take it personally if I died.”

 

The werewolf cocked his head at Stiles, as if considering this. Then it lunged toward his open window and reached inside before Stiles could react. Stiles could hear the material of his shirt ripping when the claws swiped across his shoulder and chest. Luckily, the blow was mostly caught by his t-shirt and hoodie, barely scratching the skin. But his brain tied the sound of the material shredding in with the tearing of skin.

 

Stiles screamed in pain and shock. The werewolf turned away as a projectile flew threw the window, lodging in the head rest barely an inch from Stiles’s left ear. It was a tranq dart. Hunters.

 

“Okay,” He said to himself, or the werewolf, he wasn’t sure. “I’m outta here.”

 

Stiles popped his seatbelt, and turned off the ignition. Grabbing his keys, he scrambled over the gear shift and out the passenger’s side door into the woods. Admittedly, had he been thinking, Stiles would have figured out that he should probably run toward the shooter, instead of away from the wolf. But he wasn’t really thinking. It was all lizard-brain fight or flight up in Stiles Country.

 

Stiles could tell that the wolf was behind him and closing fast. He thought he could pick up the stomp of boots somewhere in the distance, but he couldn’t concentrate on that now. He had to get to the Hale House. It wasn’t far, just a few yards over the ridge in front of him. Stiles strained to see it through the trees. Too bad he didn’t see the downed tree at his feet. He tripped, careening down a hill. He cracked his head against a stump and the world went sideways.

 

Before the blackness overtook his vision, Stiles could see the werewolf loping towards him. It readied itself to pounce, but froze midair, falling sideways. The last thing Stiles heard before finally giving in to sleep was a man with a thick British accent growling.

 

“Oz, look what you’ve done, you plonker! Honestly, if the witch didn’t fancy you, I’d skin your hide for a winter coat. Probably get fleas for my trouble.”

 

* * *

 

Stiles was dreaming about his fourth period Calculus teacher riding around on a broom cackling, “I’ll get you my pretty, and your little wolfie too!”

 

Only the teacher was Lydia Martin, and despite having bright green skin, she was wearing a black negligee and was still kinda hot. Then, he turned around and the Cowardly Lion was shaking him.

 

“Oi! Wake up, boy!”

 

The Cowardly Lion was really Derek Hale, and really he only had the mane of a lion, or wolf, or whatever. Below the mane, Derek was naked to the waist and Stiles couldn’t stop staring at his chest. “Derek?”

 

The Cowardly Lion/Wolf snickered at him. “No, I’m not Derek, pet. But you do need to wake up.”

 

Why did Derek have a British accent? Stiles pressed his palms to his eyes. Wiping the sleep away was like being dragged from his own tomb. His head throbbed, his eyes burned, he groaned. “Ugh, shoot me now.”

 

“Well I can if you like,” said the voice, “But it would be rather counterproductive.”

 

Stiles blinked and his vision righted itself slowly. The apparition of Derek Hale turned into a tall blond man, clad in black jeans and a black t-shirt. He had the same ice blue eyes as Derek, but he also had cheekbones that looked like they could cut Stiles if he touched them. There was a scar that cut through his left eyebrow making him look rakish, and his mouth was just...“Beautiful.”

 

The man smirked. “You’re not so bad yourself, pet. I’ll wager you'll be even better once you get cleaned up.”

 

“Did I say that out loud?” Stiles’s eyes widened, horrified. “Sorry, I... wait what?”

 

He looked down to see that his shredded hoodie and undershirt were covered in drying blood. The blond man lit a cigarette and handed Stiles a blue t-shirt and a pinstriped button down. “Scalp lacerations bleed pretty heavily. Luckily the scratches didn't need much but some super glue and ointment. I figured you wouldn’t want a stranger undressing you, though. How many fingers am I holding up?”

 

Stiles stared at the digits in front of his face. “Do you always paint your fingernails black?”

 

The man rolled his eyes. “How about this? What’s your name, luv?”

 

“Stiles. Stiles Stilinski.” Stiles slipped off his ruined shirts and replaced them with the new ones. The scratches on his chest were thankfully shallow and not beginning to heal.

 

“Damn!” The man cursed, pulling out a cell phone. “I better call that ambulance after all.”

 

“What? Why?” Stile groaned, touching his head. “It’s not like I’m even bleeding anymore.”

 

“You’re obviously concussed. You’ve developed a stutter.”

 

“Huh?” Stiles thought about it for a second. “No, Stiles is my name. It’s what everybody calls me.”

 

“Your parents named you Stiles Stilinski?”

 

It was Stiles's turn to roll his eyes. He removed his wallet from his unmarred jeans and handed over his driver’s license. The blond read it, raised his scarred eyebrow and handed it back. “Nice to meet you, Stiles. I’m Spike.”

 

“Spike?” Stiles laughed, “what kind of a name is….” The question died in his throat as a growl sounded out from the right.

 

Stiles reared back, his arms flailing as he saw the werewolf from the woods lunge against an iron cage not two feet away. Spike snorted, lipped his cigarette, and pointed a handgun at the wolf. “Oi, fuzzball! You’re scaring the kid!”

 

Spike shot the wolf, and it fell over. It took Stiles a minute to realize that Spike had shot the thing with a tranq dart, and not a bullet. “What kind of a Hunter are you?”

 

“Hunter?” Spike scoffed. “Do I look like I’d be fetching in forest camouflage and deer urine?”

 

“No.” Stiles looked around at the dark room. “I mean yes. I mean ...you’re a werewolf hunter right? Otherwise why hole up in the dungeon outside of Hale House?”

 

“Is that what this place is?” Spike took a contemplative drag. “Just came here to get out of the sun really. I don’t really tan, you see. As for Oz here, he’s an old acquaintance of mine. He lost his mate, a nice lady werewolf name of Siobhan, a few months ago. He’s gone a bit wild, and his ex sent me to track him down, since I happened to be in the area.”

 

“You saved me.” Stiles smiled. “Earlier, that was you in the woods! You kept him from eating me. Thanks, man...wait sun!”

 

“Pardon?”

 

“You said you needed to get out of the sun.”

 

“Yeah, about that-”

 

“What time is it?” Stiles asked, suddenly panicked.

 

Spike tipped his head to the side. “I’d say about 9:30 in the morning, why?”

 

“Shit!” Stiles groaned. “I’m late for school. This is my third tardy this month. They’re gonna call my Dad. I’m so dead!”

 

“How old are you, boy?”

 

Stiles looked up from his frantic pacing, momentarily distracted. “Eighteen. High school sucks!”

 

“I’ll take your word for it, ducks. Never went myself. Come to think of it, the last high school I encountered was technically located on the Mouth of Hell. Yours isn't, is it?” Spike prattled.

 

“What?” Stiles huffed. “No. Just, you know, werewolves and other weird crap.”

 

“Ah, good then.” Spike picked up his cellphone. “What’s the number for your administration?”

 

“Ummm, the office number is 555-0674. Why?”

 

Spike puffed on his cigarette, punching the number into the phone. “And do you know what you want to major in at university?”

 

Now Stiles was really confused. “I don’t know. History, I guess. Maybe Zoology?”

 

Spike nodded, hitting the Connect button. The phone rang for a moment, then Spike began to speak in a nasal posh British accent. “Ah, good afternoon. Is this the Beacon Hills High School Admin Office? Excellent! My name is Randall Wyndam-Price and I would like to speak to your Dean of Students regarding a Master Stiles Stilinski. Yes, thank you I’ll hold.”

 

Stiles’s mouth hung open. “Dude! Are you high?”

 

Spike held up a finger to his lips and turned back to the conversation. “Yes! Hello, salutations, and good afternoon. As I told your secretary, my name is Randall Wyndam-Price. I am a traveling recruiter for the Summers Endowment in the Department of Medieval Studies at Oxford. What? Yes, thank you very much, I enjoy it immensely.”

 

“To that end, it’s come to my attention that the student visit I set up today with Master Stilinski was not approved by your institution. Apparently, my lumox of a secretary sent a letter to the boy, but failed to send its companion to your office. So now, I am mid-interview for an international scholarship, and my interviewee is nearly inconsolable regarding his attendance record.” Spike dithered on in his simpering voice without pause.

 

“So my question to you dear fellow is, if you would be so kind as to excuse Mr. Stilinski for the rest of the day in anticipation of my confirmation letter? What’s that? Well of course I can confirm my credentials! What do you take me for? Yes you may contact my Head of College, Mr. Rupert Giles at 44 1865 555555. Yes of course. Quite understandable. Ta!”

 

Stiles was now doing his best impression of a Wall-Eyed Bass. “That was, like, an Olympic level of bullshit!”

 

“Well thank you.” Spike replied in his regular voice. “I always fancied myself a poet, and lying is a bit like-”

 

The phone rang, cutting Spike off. He looked at it and smirked before hitting the Speaker button.

 

“Watcher.”

 

Another British voice sounded over the phone. This one was, deeper, posher, and extremely annoyed. “Spike, would you care to tell me why I just asked, as an Oxford Dean, to alibi a teenager out of midday coursework?”

 

“Well, I didn’t think it’d be a problem, Ripper.” Spike said, exchanging a smile with Stiles. Stiles was struck by how the expression changed his face entirely, making it warmer. “I mean, didn’t you used to do that for a living?”

 

“Spike!” shouted the voice. It paused.

 

“Are you cleaning your spectacles again?” Spike asked. “Because one of these days, you are liable to break them, you know.”

 

“May I please speak to Mr. Stilinski?”

 

Spike shrugged. “Whatever tickles your pickle, Rupes. You’re on speaker.”

 

“Mr. Stilinski, my name is Rupert Giles.”

 

Stiles sat up straighter as Spike handed him the phone. “Hi, Mr. Giles.”

 

“Yes good. Hello. Before I can alibi you in good conscience, I need to know what happened.”

 

Stiles looked at Spike for direction, and the blond gave him a ‘go ahead’ gesture.

 

“Well, Spike’s werewolf friend Oz kinda jumped me last night. I got knocked out, and Spike was cool enough to patch me up. But by the time I came to, I was late for school. And I kinda already have a record…” Stiles trailed off.

 

Giles’s voice perked up. “Oz? Good grief! Did you sustain any permanent injury?”

 

Spike answered. “Kid got his bell rung, a bit of a scalp lac, and a few scrapes and bruises. Nothing permanent.”

 

“And I take it by the lack of hysteria that a werewolf attack is not unusual?” Giles countered.

 

Stiles piped up. “Beacon Hills is kinda lousy with supernatural beings.”

 

There was another long pause. “Alright then, I’ll take care of your Principal, Mr. Stilinski. Spike, Willow is en route to retrieve Oz. She’s not in the best of moods, either. So, best to keep all parties in one piece.”

 

“Right, don’t piss off the Wicked Witch of the West.” Spike rolled his eyes. “As if that one near-apocalypse didn’t teach me that.”

 

“Spike!”

 

“Need I remind you, Rupert, that I’ve been managing crisis situations since before your grandfather was in short pants?”

 

“And we do still require your presence in Cleveland.” Giles ignored the last comment.

 

Spike made a crunching noise with his teeth. “Sorry, Watcher. You’re breaking up!”

 

As Spike hung up, Stiles began clapping, arms flailing. “That was awesome!”

 

Spike saluted. “Just another day at the office these days. It would appear you have a free afternoon, with our apologies.”

 

“So you’re really not a Hunter?” Stiles mused. “Then what are you?”

 

“He’s a vampire.” Said a voice to Stiles’s left.

 

“DeDerek!” Stiles stuttered. His mouth was suddenly dry. “What are you doing here?”

 

Derek Hale was standing at the door with his arms crossed across his chest. Derek had been gone for a while, and Stiles had almost forgotten how good he looked in just a t-shirt, jeans and black leather jacket.

 

“It’s my basement, Stiles.” Derek rolled his eyes. Or he would have, if they hadn’t been fixed on Spike. “I got into town a couple of days ago. Scott called to check if I’d seen you since you weren’t in school this morning.”

 

“So this is Derek?” Spike asked Stiles, with a lascivious grin.

 

Stiles was about to give Spike a dirty look when he registered what Derek just said. “Wait, you’re a vampire?”

 

“And proud of it, pet.” Spike smiled. His face shifted, gnarled bumps covering his cheeks, nose and forehead. Fangs sprang from his teeth. He quickly shifted it back as Stiles took a step backward from him. “Relax, kid. I’m one of the good guys. I patched you up while you were bleeding like a stuck pig, and didn't even sneak a taste. If I were going ta feed off of ya, I would have done already.”

 

Stiles was about to respond that this seemed reasonable, but Derek was having none of it. His eyes began to glow blue, and he took a step in front of Stiles, shielding the younger man.

 

“Get out.” Derek growled low in his throat.

 

Spike glared.  “I would, but I can’t, and you know it.”

 

“Not my problem,” Derek countered. “This is my territory and you’re trespassing.”

 

“Derek, the guy saved my life!” Stiles interjected. “Can’t you just let him chill here until the sun goes down?”

 

“I don’t think he’s talking about the bunker, luv.” Spike’s eyes sparkled. He inclined his head toward Stiles, pressed his tongue against his front teeth and leered.

 

“Oh.” A light went on behind Stiles’s eyes. “Oh!”

 

“Time to go Stiles.” Derek growled out, taking an offensive stance against Spike.

 

Spike gave Derek a big grin. Flicking his cigarette to the ground, he ground it out with the toe of his boot.  “Take your best shot, Wolf-Boy.”

 

Derek did. Extending his claws, he took a swipe at Spike’s chest. Spike shifted back into game face and spun out of the werewolf’s grasp, giving him a hard blow to the kidney. Derek grabbed hold of Spike and threw him overhead smack into the cage holding Oz. This jarred the cage door, but neither Derek nor Spike seemed to notice, both fighting to win.

 

Stiles did notice, however, when the cage door creaked open and he was again face to face with Oz’s feral wolf form. “Oh, shit!”

 

Stiles abandoned the idea of keeping track of the fight, turned and ran. He was lucky that whatever drugs Spike had shot Oz with were slowing the wolf down. He made it all the way up the tunnel from the Hale basement into the midmorning sun, before stumbling again on a rocky outcrop. This time, there was no Spike to stop the werewolf from pouncing on Stiles.

 

Stiles turned, holding his arms out to shield his face against attack. But it never came. Stiles opened his eyes to see the snarling werewolf floating in midair. He turned to see a stunning red-headed woman behind him with her hand outstretched, as if holding the werewolf where he was.

 

“Oz! Sweety you have to stop this! Come in and let us help you.” The woman pleaded. The werewolf snarled again in response. The redhead shrugged. “Okay have it your way. Somnum Tenebre!”

 

The werewolf collapsed to the ground, making a noise that sounded suspiciously like snoring. Stiles turned to the woman. “Are...are you really the fucking Wicked Witch of the West?”

 

The woman huffed, but held out a hand to Stiles, helping him up. “I take it you’ve been listening to Spike’s war stories? I’m Willow, and you must be Stiles.”

 

“Yeah, hi.” Stiles shook her offered hand. He pointed to Oz. “So, is he down now? Like, for the foreseeable future? Cause I’d kinda like to quit my damsel in distress act. You know, the running and screaming are getting kinda old.”

 

Willow burst out laughing.

 

“Funny?” Stiles waved his hands at her. “That’s great, my terror is funny to you.”

 

Willow shook her head. “No, no. I’m sorry! It’s just that you remind me so much of my best friend when we were in high school. You even have the same mannerisms as he does. Gods, I needed that!”

 

“Well, I’m glad to be an amusement to you.” Stiles huffed. “In the meantime, Spike and one of my good friends are trying to tear each other apart downstairs. So do you think you could?...”

 

“Oh, sure.” Willow snapped her fingers, and Oz winked out of existence.

 

“Is he?” Stiles frowned.

 

“In Cleveland.” Willow nodded. “We have a cage all ready and raring to go for him. Shall we?”

 

When Stiles and Willow made it back down to the bunker, it looked like a tornado had blown through. The iron cage was in pieces as were the other few pieces of furniture. A blond form went flying through the air, followed by a hairy dark figure.

 

Willow held a hand up. “Confuto!”

 

Derek hit an invisible wall and crumpled into a snarling heap. Spike stood up, from a pile of rubble in the corner, blood dripping from a split lower lip. He shifted out of game-face.

 

“Oh come on, witch! I had ‘im on the ropes!”

 

“You’re here on a retrieval mission, Spike. Not to beat up the locals!” Willow rolled her eyes.

 

Spike glared at her and held up two fingers, showing her the backs of his knuckles. Stiles went to help Derek up, but the werewolf brushed him off. “You people are not welcome here!”

 

“No, I don’t suppose we are.” Willow said, shooting a glare back at Spike. She rubbed her hands together. “Look Mr..Hale is it? This is really my fault. I was held up getting to Oz, and Spike was the only operative that we had in the area.”

 

“Yep, totally her fault.” Spike agreed, lighting another cigarette and pointing at Willow.

 

Willow pointedly ignored him. “Anyways. Unfortunately, because I had to transport Oz out of here using magic, I don’t have enough in reserve to do the same with Spike. So he will need to stay here until sunrise. With your permission, of course! Then, I give you my word that he will leave town at sunset, without incident, or he’ll answer to me and our superior.”

 

“Bint!” Spike snarled at Willow. “She’s not my superior! I’m a free agent, I am.”

 

Derek wiped blood from his own nose. He looked ready to say no, but Stiles put a hand on his arm. Something passed between them, and Stiles pulled his hand away quickly. But not so quick that Spike and Willow didn’t notice.

 

Stiles cleared his throat. “Look, I’ll keep track of Spike for the rest of the day. Just until he leaves town.”

 

“Stiles.” Derek growled in warning. Stiles gave the older man a look, and Derek huffed. “Fine! Do what you want! It’s not like I own the place or anything! But he stays in the basement, got it?”

 

“Got it!” Stiles nodded. Derek shot one last dirty look at Spike and Willow, then stalked out of the bunker.

 

Willow turned back to the room. “Alrighty, that’s my cue to leave as well!”

 

“You’re not staying?” Stiles wondered. For some reason, that vaguely disappointed him.

 

Willow exchanged an anxious look with Spike. “Our friends really need me to get back. I have enough juice to transport myself. Just not both of us.”

 

“Give the Slayer my best, witch.” Spike murmured between puffs.

 

Willow’s expression turned sad. “You really should call her, you know.”

 

“Yeah, I’ll get right on that.” Spike snarked.

 

Willow looked like she was about to say something else, then she turned to Stiles. “Watch out for him, he can be a handful. It was nice to meet you, Stiles.”

 

“Nice to meet you too.” Stiles waved at Willow as she disintegrated into a million tiny balls of light.

 

“Well, that was fun!” Stiles pronounced. “In the way that’s not.”

 

Spike chuckled. “You really do remind me of someone. I’m gonna have to start calling you Zeppo.”

 

“I don’t know what that means.” Stiles pointed at Spike. “But what the hell, man? Why would you pick a fight with Derek?”

 

“You mean other than the fact that he was bloody well asking for it?” Spike smirked. “He was all growly and broody. And he was taking you completely for granted!”

 

“I…”

 

“Uh huh. Try and deny it. I heard that ‘been in town two days’ bit. And I take it he didn’t call you? The poncy chit.” Spike snarled.

 

“No.” Stiles moved his shoulders trying to shrug off the feeling of being under the microscope of Spike’s stare. “But you know, why would he?”

 

“You’re trying to tell me that there’s nothing going on between you two?”

 

“Nope. Nothing.” Stiles heart sunk into his stomach as he uttered the words. True as they may be, they still hurt.

 

“Uh huh.” Spike said, clearly unconvinced. He just stood there staring at Stiles, waiting.

 

Stiles broke. “Okay we may have had a thing at one point. But clearly I mistook it for more than it was. So no, there is nothing going on between us.”

 

Spike nodded in sympathy. “Isn’t that always the way? They hook you by the short and curlies, then pretend you don’t exist.”

 

“Gross!” Stiles wrinkled his nose. “So it doesn’t bother you that I’m…” He trailed off.

 

“Bisexual?” Spike finished.

 

Stiles went on perfecting his fish impression. “I’m not…”

 

Spike stubbed out his cigarette and took three strides towards Stiles, stepping right up into the boy’s personal space. Spike’s lips were barely an inch from Stiles, and though no part of the vampire was actually touching him, Stiles could feel every curve of lean muscle; could smell the leather and tobacco on Spike’s skin. If he had ever met a person in his life that simply exuded sex, it was Spike.

 

Stiles’s heart thundered in his ears. He swallowed hard and shifted on his feet, making room in his rapidly tightening jeans. Then he began to hear a rumbling sound, that he could only describe as a purr, emanating from the vampire’s chest. Spike dipped his lips to Stiles’s ear. His voice was like warm honey.

 

“Now, I may not have known you for very long. But I reckon from the way you were watching both Derek and Willow, that you have a thing for brooding men, and red-headed women. Isn’t that right...pet?”

 

Maybe it was the irresistible timbre of Spike’s voice. Maybe he really had taken a bad hit to the head. Maybe it had just been too fucking long since he’d felt anyone’s touch but his own. Stiles was seized by a mad impulse to kiss Spike. So he did.

 

Stiles crushed his lips against Spike’s, exploring the coppery recesses. Spike’s hand slipped around the back of Stiles’s head, deepening the kiss for a moment. It became almost tender. Then Spike took a gentle step back. Stiles felt like drowning in his eyes.

 

“What’s wrong?”

 

“Pet, much as I would love to shag you six ways to Sunday, right now.” Spike smiled softly. “And believe me I would.”

 

“You would?” Stiles breathed.

 

“Abso-fuckin-lutely!” Spike replied. “But there are two major problems with that.”

 

“What problems?” Stiles was still breathing hard. “I see no problems!”

 

Spike caressed the side of Stiles’s face with his fingers, with the black chipped paint. “First, I am trying like hell to be a White Hat, at this point in my life. It’s not easy, and you certainly aren’t making it any easier. But, secondly, I’ve made it a personal rule to never again sleep with someone who is substituting me for someone else. And you are clearly head over heals for the broody chap in the leather jacket.”

 

Stiles slumped back against a downed piece of I-beam.  He rubbed his face vigorously with both hands, trying to scrub away the sexual tension. “Is it that obvious?”

 

“To just about anyone but Derek, I wager.” Spike patted Stiles’s shoulder.

 

Spike went over to a long leather duster jacket that was draped over his traveling bag. From the pocket of the coat, he drew a silver flask. He took a swig then handed it to Stiles. Stiles took it, but eyed it suspiciously.

 

“This isn’t like some trick to get me to drink your vampire blood and join the undead, is it?”

 

Spike rolled his eyes. “Stiles I may be blond, devastatingly handsome, and a vampire. But I’m not Kiefer fucking Sutherland and this isn’t the bloody Lost Boys. It’s thirty year old Scotch that I nicked from the Watcher’s personal store.”

 

Stiles eyed it, but decided to take a chance. The whisky was smooth going down, and he felt the buzz immediately. “God sometimes I hate my life!”

 

“Let’s not get maudlin, pet.” Spike patted him on the shoulder. “Just tell Ol' Spike what happened.”

 

So Stiles did. All of it.

 

* * *

 

Hours later, Stiles stumbled out of the bunker dead drunk, but feeling as if a weight had been lifted off his shoulders.

 

“You know, I actually feel better.” He slurred. “Better than I have in a long time!”

 

Spike slipped out of the shadows behind Stiles. The light from the setting sun was dying behind the trees. “Good for you.”

 

“I feel like I could do anything.” Stiles rambled. “Or anyone!”

 

“Uh huh.” Spike watched as Stiles proceeded to vomit profusely over the side of a bush. “Right. Let’s get you home before you ruin your nice new threads.”

 

Spike walked Stiles home, helping him up to his bedroom window at Stiles’s insistence. As Stiles stepped over the windowsill and into the room, Spike stood outside on the roof.

 

“This is where I leave you. Can’t come in without an invite. Make me a promise, Stiles. Never invite a vampire into your home! Got it?”

 

“Even if it’s Kiefer Sutherland?” Stiles gave Spike a dopey grin.

 

“Especially then!”

 

Stiles leaned out the window and gave Spike a brief sweet kiss. “Alright, I promise. Thanks, Spike! For saving me, listening to me, everything. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a friend who’s cared enough to ask.”

 

“Anytime pet.” Spike smiled. “Now off with you! Get some rest. You never know what the night will bring.”

 

Stiles retreated to the marginal comfort of his bed. Spike jumped off the roof, landed soundly on his feet and lit yet another cigarette. Chain smoking had been renewed as a habit lately. The flint strike of his lighter illuminated his smirk in the darkness.

 

“Right then, let the games begin.”

 

* * *

 

Derek Hale was doing what was probably his one thousandth and some push up. He’d taken to doing punishing workouts, over the course of his sabbatical from Beacon Hills. The idea was to banish the images that tormented him from his brain. Images of carnage, sure, but also images of an alabaster chest, soft lips, and trusting brown eyes. Images of what he’d left behind in an effort to ‘find himself’, to control himself, to just be better.

 

Derek was so immersed in his thoughts that he didn’t smell the undead creature who had invaded his home, until it was too late. By the time he swung around to face the vampire, two tranquilizer darts were already sticking out of his neck and chest. Derek lunged at Spike, but fell to his knees just short of the mark.

 

Spike stood above Derek, and Derek could just see the blurring form of Spike’s hand waving at him. “Nighty night, Wolf-Boy. Don’t let the fleas start to bite.”

 

Derek growled all the way into unconsciousness.

 

When Derek came to, minutes or maybe hours later, he found that he was actually quite comfortable. That was if he didn’t count the throbbing headache and pain in his wrists. And why was he cold?

 

Derek’s eyes snapped open, and he looked down at himself. What he saw made him scream. He struggled against the shackles binding his wrists and ankles, to no avail. A black clad figure melted out of the shadows, into one of the shafts of moonlight penetrating Derek’s broken bedroom ceiling.

 

“Oh good!” Spike cooed. “You’re awake. I was beginning to think I’d accidently put you in a coma or some such.”

 

“When I get out of these chains,” Derek growled. “I’m going to tear your skin off in shreds and make you eat them!”

 

“Inventive!” Spike smiled. “I’ll give you that. But in the the list of the worst things to happen to me in the last hundred years, it wouldn’t even make the top ten. Remind me to tell you sometime how I got the name Spike.”

 

Derek growled and rattled his chains. “What the hell do you want, vampire?”

 

“Just a chat, nothing more. Then, I’ll release you and you can commence with your calisthenics.”

 

“You want to talk?” Derek asked incredulously.

 

“Mmm.” Spike nodded, running a finger up the inside of Derek’s bare calf. “About our good mutual friend Stiles.”

 

Derek’s eyes flashed blue. “I am not talking to you about Stiles!”

 

“Alright,” Spike sighed in mock disappointment. “We’ll just have to do this the hard way.”

 

Spike rooted around in the pair of Derek’s jeans, which he'd discarded at the foot of the bed, and fished out Derek’s cell phone. Spike started tapping at the screen with his thumbs.

 

“I have to admit, I was hoping you wouldn’t budge. This is going to be so much more fun! For me. For you, and definitely for the boy.”

 

* * *

 

It was past midnight when Stiles was awakened by the buzz of his phone. It took him several swipes at the bedside table, and an awkward plummet to the floor to realize that it was a text message and not an alarm begging for his attention. Stiles flipped on the screen, grumbling.

 

“Meet me at the house. Need your help. Bring bolt cutters.- Derek”

 

“Great!” Stiles groaned. “Why can’t people ever text me just to say hi?”

 

It took Stiles ten minutes to roll out of bed and negotiate his way down to the garage to retrieve his long neglected bicycle. Best not to tempt fate by driving, or walking around Beacon Hills alone at night. It took Stiles another twenty minutes to make it to Hale House.

 

When he finally stumbled through the door, Stiles’s head was throbbing. He waved his dad’s bolt cutters in the air. “Okay, Derek! I brought your damned tools.”

 

The only response to his shout was the muffled groan from upstairs. Stiles carefully made his way up the decrepit steps to Derek’s bedroom. “This better be good, cause I am too hungover to…”

 

Stiles’s comment died in his throat, his mouth falling open when he saw the scene on the bed. Derek Hale was spread eagle across his dark blue comforter, his wrists and ankles bound to his wrought iron bed frame with steel manacles.

 

Derek himself was bare-ass naked but for the large holiday bow covering his crotch, and a magic marker message scrawled across his chest which read:

 

“To Stiles,

Happy Early Graduation.

Love,

Spike”

 

Stiles must have been staring at the tableau for a while, because he didn’t notice the groaning coming from Derek until the werewolf started growling at him. It was only then that Stiles noticed the bright red ball-gag lodged in Derek’s mouth.

 

“Crap!”

 

Stiles rushed to Derek’s aid. Propping the bolt cutters against the footboard he sat on the bed next to Derek. He unfastened the black rubber strap that held the gag in place, but Derek had to open his mouth extra wide to unlodge his wolf fangs from the red rubber ball.

 

Derek turned his head away from Stiles and spat, clearing his mouth of the rubber taste. “What the hell took you so long?”

 

The question was like a shot to the gut for Stiles. “I came as quick as I could. I was dead asleep when I got your text.”

 

“Do I look like I can operate Text Messager?” Derek growled. “That was Spike. Now, get me out of these chains so I can go kill the fucker!”

 

Stiles was reaching for the bolt cutters. but he sat them on the bed beside Derek. “You know what? No.”

 

“No?” Derek gave Stiles a look like he’d grown a second head.

 

“No!” Stiles repeated. “Spike’s been a better friend to me in the one day that I’ve known him, than anyone has been in months. Between Scott getting wrapped up in pack politics, and you going completely MIA, Spike’s been the only one to actually act like he gives a shit about me. So no, I’m not gonna help you kill him. There’s your damn bolt cutters. Get yourself out. I’m going back home to sleep off my hangover. Call me if you ever decide you want to talk.”

 

Watching Stiles walk away, Derek swore to himself, then out loud. “Goddammit, Stiles! Come back!”

 

Stiles spun on his heel at the door. “You know what? You’ve got some balls demanding anything of me, you arrogant entitled bullheaded sonofabitch! I put my life on the line, my academic career, my best friend. I gave up my virginity to save your ass! You owe me a hell of a lot more than showing back up in my life, out of the blue, telling me you’ve been in town for days without calling. It’s not like you lost my number!”

 

Stiles showed Derek the text that Spike had sent from Derek’s phone as evidence. Derek sighed.

 

“You’re right.”

 

“Right!” Stiles seethed. “You’re goddamn right I’m right.”

 

“I should have called you.” Derek admitted. “I even almost dialed a couple of times. I just…. I didn’t know what to say. After Wolf Lake, after what you did for me, what the hell was I supposed to say?”

 

Stiles threw his hands up in incredulity. “How about ‘Hi, Stiles it’s me Derek. I’m back in town. Maybe we can talk about that one night of passionate hot sex we had, over a cup of coffee, or perhaps some other properly caffeinated beverage?’”

 

Derek’s answer was a pained look. Stiles rolled his eyes. “Or how about just ‘Hey Stiles. How’s it going? I’m back in town and not dead?’”

 

“You thought I was dead?” Derek frowned.

 

“Well you never called. So yeah, the thought had occurred to me.” Stiles huffed.

 

Derek sighed. “I’m sorry, Stiles. I thought you could feel...I mean I thought you knew I was alive.”

 

“Yeah, not so much.”

 

“Baby, I’m sorry.” Derek soothed, straining against the manacles to reach Stiles, perched on the edge of the bed.

 

“Do you even know what it’s been like?” Stiles turned his back to Derek, trying to hide the tears streaming down his face. “Not knowing. Not being able to tell anyone what happened because of that whole ‘pain of death’ oath?”

 

Stiles felt the bed shift, heard a groan and crack of metal breaking, and suddenly a strong muscled arm was wrapped around his chest, drawing him backwards against Derek’s bare chest. Stiles felt Derek’s lips at his ear.

 

“It was not my intention to hurt you. You of all people, Stiles.” Derek’s chest vibrated against Stiles’s back as he spoke. “And if you let me out of the rest of these chains, I will spend the rest of the night making it up to you, if that’s what you want.”

 

Stiles turned his head to answer, only to feel Derek’s soft lips cover his own. Derek kissed him with all the wild fury of a tumultuous storm. Stiles poured his pain and fear of losing Derek into the kiss. They both came out breathless.

 

“Just so we’re clear.” Stiles croaked. “I let you out of these chains, and you spend the rest of the night shagging my ass, not murdering Spike’s, yeah?”

 

Derek’s beautiful face lit up in a wicked grin. “If that’s what you want, baby, that’s what you’ll get. But be careful what you wish for.”

 

Stiles swallowed hard, picking up the bolt cutters. As his eyes traveled down Derek’s body, he set the tool back on the floor. Stiles slid a hand up Derek’s bare thigh, gently untying something from the holiday bow that covered the werewolf’s growing erection. Stiles held up a steel padlock key.

 

“My wish is your command?”

 

* * *

 

Spike leaned up against the charred siding of Hale House just below the bedroom window. A duo of male moans sang out the open window. Spike patted his pockets for his pack of Marlboros, only to find it empty.

 

“Bugger!” He pitched the box into the underbrush.

 

A fiery red pixie cut peeked out of the shadows as Willow materialized before him. “You know it’s your planet too. Littering hurts everyone.”

 

“Whatever, witch. Did you bring what I asked for?”

 

Willow produced a piece of paper on official Oxford letterhead thanking one Stiles Stilinski for his interview. Then, she handed over an official invitation from the New International Watcher’s Council for a prestigious internship in Stiles’s choice of its North American offices.

 

Spike smiled. “The boy’s smart. He’d make a decent Scooby someday if he ever decides to leave this wretched burg.”

 

“So what are you, like a cheerleader for Team Stiles now?” Willow chuckled.

 

Spike’s nose wrinkled. “Do I look like I’d look good waving pom poms?”

 

Willow gave him an assessing look and Spike rolled his eyes. “Don’t answer that! Just consider me more of a mascot.”

 

Willow’s response was cut off by Spike’s ringtone, the theme song for _Dawson’s Creek_. The screen read ‘Slayer.’ Spike let it ring.

 

“You really should talk to her, Spike.” Willow said before evaporating into the night.

 

Spike’s thumb hovered over the Cancel button for a moment. Just long enough to hear a fresh chorus of moans and passionate curses from the window above. Spike hit the Accept button instead.

 

“Hello, cutie.”

 


End file.
